Ken Bruen: The Guards

Went to Nestor’s. The sentry was in place but I ignored him. I could feel his gratitude. The bar guy nodded and I said,

“You do coffee?”

He held up a mug, said,

“Sure do.”

Took the hard chair. The daily papers were spread on the table. Took the Independent. For Mrs Bailey, if no other reason.

Top story was about a man who’d had his new car stolen. He lived in a neighbourhood with a heavy influx of refugees. Later the same day, a Romanian had asked him for money. The man had beaten him to an inch of his life. It turned out a local kid had “borrowed” the car.

My coffee arrived and the bar guy said,

“He lost his car, but the other poor bastard lost his country.”

I put the paper down. He said,

“The new Ireland. Ten years from now, I’ll be serving Romanian-Irish, African-Irish.”

Thought I’d best play my cards, said,

“Better than the parish pump shite of the fifties.”

“Way better.”

On Eyre Square, I approached a band of winos. Most were semiconscious, nodding to the phantom orchestra. I’d heard some of the music in my time. I asked,

“Anyone seen Padraig?”

A guy with a Boyzone sweatshirt and a Glasgow accent said,

“Wit di ya win wit im, Jimmy?”

Roughly translated means, “Why?”

“I’m a friend of his.”

He conferred with his colleagues. A woman rose from the group. She gave new dimensions to the description “bedraggled”, croaked,

“He’s in hospital.”

“What happened.”

“The Salthill bus hit him.”

The way she put it, sounded like the bus had been gunning for him. The Glasgow guy asked,

“Pris i cip i tee, Jimmy?”

I handed over some cash. This brought a shower of blessings, benedictions and spittle. God knows, I needed them.

Only later did it register that the woman had an American accent. The drinking school had gone international. A United Nations of Despair. I checked an old copy of Ross McDonald and found this nugget.

There were drab thumbprints under her eyes. Maybe she had been up all night. Americans never grow old, they died: and her eyes had guilty knowledge of it.

I headed for the hospital. Foreboding writ large.

So that’s the list

I said at last

so full of breeze, so full of

booze,

well let me sign it with

a flourish, end it with

a sadder kiss

just one of course.

En route to the hospital, I brought

Roll-up tobacco

Paper

3 Pairs of thermal socks.

I made enquiries from a porter. He was obstructive as required by his status. Eventually I got through to him. Cash helped. He said,

“The oul wino. He’s in St Joseph’s Ward. He’s had his final blast of meths.”

“Thank you for sharing.”

“What?”

I didn’t recognise Padraig, not only because they’d washed him, but he’d shrunk.

“How yah?” I said.

“They won’t let me smoke.”

“Bad bastards. Will I roll you one?”

“I would be for ever in your debt. They are not overly fond of me here. Do my brethren on the square prosper?”

“They were all asking for you.”

They’d already forgotten him. He knew that. Gave a tight smile. I lit the rollie and put it in his mouth. Coughs and chest rumbles danced him in the bed. He said,

“I needed that. Did I ever acquire your name?”

“Jack.”

“Suits you. That it’s also the name of my favourite beverage is the sharp side of irony. Lying here, nicotineless and gasping for a drink, I pondered God. I think I heard once that He knew my name before I was born. Have you any thoughts on that?”

I took a furtive look round the ward. People were pointedly ignoring us. The word was out on the wino. He began to shiver. The heat was on full throttle. I could feel sweat in my beard. A tea trolley came, pushed by a middle-aged knacker called Rooney.

A small spit of a man who put the taste into venom. My father, the most peaceful of men, was rumoured to have given him a hiding. He distributed tea and dead biscuits to all except Padraig.

“Hey, hey, Rooney,” I shouted.

He pretended not to hear me and the trolley accelerated as he reached the corridor.

Cold.

The cold flash of a killing rage.

Blind.

I caught him near the Coronary Unit. The darting eyes threw the challenge to me. His catering badge “Mr Rooney” gave him status. The look said,

“You can’t touch me!”

I’m over six foot, weigh in at 180 lbs. I felt like two of myself. My voice came gut low.

“Do you get to Casualty?”

“No, I don’t, I go to...”

And he launched into a litany of saints. Representing the various wards. I said,

“You’re going to be in Casualty in about five minutes because I’m going to break your left arm!”

“What’s the matter with you, Taylor? I never did nothing to you. I was a great pal of your oul fellah’s.”

“Go back up that corridor. Wheel your bag of tricks into the ward and offer that man a cup of tea... oh, and one of them mouldy biscuits.”

He raised up on his toes, asked,

“Arrah, a wino... what do you care... what’s he to you? ’Tisn’t tea the likes of him wants.”

As he finished, I stared into his eyes. Let him see what even I don’t acknowledge. He turned the trolley round and served Padraig his afternoon tea... and two biscuits. I even had a cup myself, declined seconds.

After, Padraig said,

“I won’t make the square for the races.”

“You might.”

“No. I’d have liked to wear them new socks. Do you think... do you think you could fit them on me now. I’m perished.”

He surely was.

The socks were red thermal. Said on the front... “Cosy Fit”. That near did me in.

I rolled back the blanket and his feet were a sin. A serious novelist would call them

gnarled

twisted

lacerated

and oh

so very old.

The socks were a size medium and enormous on him. He watched me watching them. I asked,

“How’s that?”

“Mighty, I’m the better of them already. I had a pair of Argylls once, or maybe I just hope I did. You have a rare gift, my friend.”

“Do I?”

“You never probe or pry into a person’s affairs.”

“Thank you.”

Not much of a recommendation for an investigator. It was time to leave. I said,

“I’ll bring you a drop of the creature.” He gave a lovely smile, said,

“Any creature.”

Then leant out of the bed, rummaged in a locker and brought out some battered sheets of paper, said,

“Read this, my friend, but not now. You’ll know the time.”

“That’s a bit mysterious.”

“Without mystery, we are lost!”

Question: “What do you know about money?”

Young Man: “Not a lot.”

Answer: “It’s how they keep score.”

Bill James, Gospel

Outside the hospital, the black dog descended. A cloud of depression that begged, “End it now.”

Used to be, the best early house was right opposite the hospital. Gone, of course. Now you have The River Inn. I chanced it. Not a sign of the river.

A young woman tending bar, complete with name tag:

Jeez, for the days of Mary.

She gave me a smile full of capped teeth. I hated her, said,

“Jameson and water.”

Figured she couldn’t screw that up. She didn’t.

Though she did add ice. Worse, she hovered. I said,

“Don’t you have to floss or something?”

Took a window seat and realised I’d forgotten to give Padraig his money. A middle-aged woman was going table to table distributing leaflets. Dropped one hastily on mine, without eye contact. No doubt Shona had clued her in. I read: